


Magic Stiles

by Kawaiicoyote



Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Boys Kissing, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Marking, Seduction, Sexy Times, Stage fright at first, Stiles and Derek are exotic dancers, Stiles is sexy, They're dancing is more or less foreplay, bedroom eyes, stripper!Stiles, stripper!derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 11:51:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kawaiicoyote/pseuds/Kawaiicoyote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wonderland- Dancers needed, no experience required. Must be 18 or older. Male or Female. No phone calls, apply in person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magic Stiles

**Author's Note:**

> Can be read as a sequel to Magic Derek or as a Stand alone fic. Though some things will make more sense if you read Magic Derek.
> 
> Written basically because my wonderful friend GeeGollyWiz13 was talking about Magic Mike and Stiles and I can't remember the whole conversation but THIS is the result :)
> 
> Unbeta'd as per usual, so let me know if there's any blinding horrible mistakes  
> I own nothing!

“You’re _shitting me_ ,” Stiles screeches into his phone, at an octave he’s pretty sure Scott can here clear across town at Deaton’s. After a few colorful words and sputtering he chunks his phone onto his bed with more force than necessary. It bounces too soundly and doesn’t help vent his frustration, so he takes to stomping around his bedroom and screaming like a dying pterodactyl.

It helps him a little but leaves him breathless and sweating and red in the face. Overall not a very good look.

His precious beloved Jeep, had finally gone out on him after the last high speed get away chase from the new flavor of creature voted most likely to maul your face off while laughing. The repairs, which he still thinks the mechanic is tripping shrooms for the estimate, are somewhere in the ball field of just under three grand.

Three grand more than Stiles’ broke teenage ass has in the bank.

With a quick check to his online banking, he sees that he’s just shy of forty bucks and eleven cents.  Stiles scrunches up his nose at his computer monitor and hisses at it hoping it’ll make him feel better. It doesn’t.

With a sigh he shoves away from his computer desk. The chairs wheels squeak pathetically as he coasts across the floor until it runs out of momentum, the he peels himself out of the pleather.

His ears perk at the sound of the front door closing and his dad announcing that he’s home. Stiles chuckles darkly to himself and flounces out the door sing songing to his dad that he needs to talk to him.

“No,” John says around the rim of his tumbler of whiskey.

Stiles squawks indignantly and raises a hand to his throat like a scandalized housewife clutching her pearls. “But dad, you gotta help me! Nobody puts baby in the corner!”

John snorts mid-sip and raises an eyebrow at his wayward son but still shakes his head. “No.” The finality of it has Stiles shoulders slumping and his lower lip jutting out.

“But-“

“Look kiddo,” John interrupts, pinching his thumb and index finger to the bridge of his nose. “I would love to help you. Don’t get me wrong on that; but I just can’t afford three _thousand_ to fix that jeep that by now isn’t even _worth_ the money to fix it up. If anything it’d be cheaper just to get a new vehicle.”

Stiles stares at his dad like he’s speaking in another language. Possibly Arabic, or maybe Swahili. He shakes his head and opens his mouth to protest or ramble or both but his dad holds up his hand again and pegs him with a withering glare.

“But how am I supposed to get the money to get baby? Or a Baby 2.0?” He throws his hands up in the air at the injustice of the whole situation.

John reclines back in the dining room chair and shrugs, his eyebrows raising and lower lip jutting out as he swirls the melting ice cubes in his tumble. “Oh, I dunno Stiles. How about you do what every other kid does when they’re strapped for cash.”

Stiles leans over the dining room table, eyes wide, hanging onto every word of his father like it holds the answers of the universe. John rolls his eyes skyward and mutters under his breath, knowing that his sweet wife may she forever rest in peace is probably cackling at him and having the time of her afterlife watching this play out. In his head he knows her fluffy white wings are held up by spiky little horns, there’s no doubt about it anymore.

“Get a _job_.”

He flops back against his chair, staring at John with impossibly wide eyes and _meeps_ at him, “Seriously?”

John snorts and rises from his chair and retreats into the kitchen.

“Seriously?” Stiles repeats, calling after him. All he gets in reply is a chuckle from the kitchen, the smug bastard.

Back in his room Stiles fires up his trusty web browser and looks up the online addition of the Beacon Hills newspaper and starts to scour the classifieds.

Paper delivery boy: he’ll end up earning enough for the repairs for his jeep by the time his thrity.

Nursing assistant: does not have the experience or the stomach for such a job

Certified welder: oh so many reasons why that would not end well. The _certified_ part mainly being the main reason why that’s a no go.

Police officer: His dad would never let that happen while he was still Sherriff and he didn’t meet the _21 or older_ age requirement.

Stiles scrubs his hands over his face in frustration before clicking on the very last page of ads as a last ditch effort, bypassing the pages in-between.

His eyes scan over the ads that really are like the ones he’s already read, just repeated over and over. But towards the bottom of the page, one catches his eye.

_Wonderland- Dancers needed, no experience required. Must be 18 or older. Male or Female. No phone calls, apply in person._

He blinks and reads over the ad four more times. Wonderland. He chews over the name in his head and then the light bulb explodes over his head and sparks fly everywhere. Wonderland, the club he was taken to for his eighteenth birthday. The same club that he found out his little wolfy boyfriend was a dancer at. Stiles grins fondly at the memory of his first lap dance.

With a mischievous grin in place he’s a whirlwind of flailing limbs as he rushes out of his bedroom ad down the stairs while shoving his wallet and phone into his back pocket.

If the keys to his dad’s personal off duty truck happen to go missing along with him he pretends to know nothing about it. It’s just a coincidence that Stiles vehicle is out of commission and his dads spare key to the truck, that he absolutely did _not_ get copied when his dad wasn’t looking, just happens to be taped to the underside of a Doctor Who mug that only Stiles drinks from.

In the day time Wonderland looks a little less than wonderful. If anything it looks faded and dirty and even more seedy than it does at night.

There are only a few cars in the parking lot, but the one he _needs_ isn’t there; yet. He sits behind the wheel of the truck, listening to the engine ticking as it cool and slumps down in the worn seat to make himself comfortable and wait.

It isn’t long until the familiar sleep black Camaro pulls into the parking lot and out climbs Derek, looking broody and handsome as ever. Stiles heartbeat flutters an erratic happy tango in his ribcage. Derek visibly pauses and turns his head. Even with aviator sunglasses on Stiles knows he’s looking right at him. When Derek starts stalking towards him he gulps and slides out of the truck and leans against it.

“What are you doing here, Stiles?” As usual Derek is all doom and gloom wrapped up in muscles and leather.

Stiles pushes off from the truck and levels a beaming smile at him and boldly, _stupidly_ , slides his arms around Derek’s neck. Derek flounders for a second before his hands come to rest on Stiles hips, more to restrain him from any other movement than anything else.

“I saw you fellas were lookin’ to hire,” Stiles says cheerily and waggles his eyebrows. Derek makes a sound like he’s choking on air and drops his hands from Stiles hips.

“Go home Stiles, I’m going to be late for work.”

Stiles gapes after him for half a second then scrambles along after him.

“I’m serious!” He shouts, running around in front of him and blocking him from the entrance of the club with a scowl on his face and arms crossed over his chest. “Look I _need_ a job that pays good and I’m desperate here. I know I’m not the hunkiest thing out there but I know I can bring in some customers.”

Derek pulls his sunglasses from his face and rubs his temple like he suddenly has a headache.

“Help me just talk to your manager or something.”

Derek levels him with a glare and points a finger at him. “I’m not saying you’ll get a job but I can at least get the guy to talk to you. Don’t fuck this up. “He jabs his index finger in the center of Stiles chest before moving around him and stalking towards the entrance again.

“Oh I love it when you’re rough with me,” Stiles teases, rubbing the sting blooming on his chest as he trails after him. Derek raises a hand and flips him a bird without a backwards glance.

The manager leans back in the rounded booth and blows a smoke ring that floats up into Stiles face, clearly ignoring fire codes. Derek lurks behind Stiles being a creeper that must run in Hale males if he and Peter are anything to go by.

He feels completely violated by the manager, who simply goes by the name Niall, as he eyes Stiles from head to toe after instructing him to shed his t-shirt. Leaving him in his sleeveless undershirt that clings just a bit too much for his liking but he wore it anyway.

Nervously he stuffs his hands into his pockets and waits, hoping his mouth and mind will stay silent long enough for him to not completely ruin his chances at a job.

“Don’t you think you’re a little _scrawny_ to be an exotic dancer?” The man asks him, flicking his ashes into a crystal ash tray near his elbow.

Stiles scoffs and flexes his arms. “Dude, please. I’m a total hunk, chicks totally dig this.”

Niall raises his overly plucked eyebrows at him and Stiles can feel Derek rolling his eyes at him. But Stiles hopes that maybe seeming overly confident will help his chances.

“I’m not sure,” Nial starts after taking a long drag on his cigarette. “Sure you’ve got that cute baby face and lips that were made for crude acts. And I’ll admit you’ve got that nice lean muscle to you but I’m not sure you’re what we _need_.”

Stiles takes a deep breath and as a last ditch effort he throws himself, and Derek under the bus. He can only hope that Derek doesn’t break up with him for what he’s doing, or actually makes good on the original threat to rip his throat out with his teeth.

“Derek and I could dance together,” He blurts out in a rush, heat instantly blooming on his face with the man before him goes impossibly wide eyed despite the fact that he’s had one too many face lifts to allow him to show too much emotion.

“Why would Wolf do that? He brings in good money well enough on his own.” The man is clearly curious though bordering on condescending, but mostly curious.

“He’s my boyfriend,” Stiles squeaks out before he can change his mind. Niall looks from him to behind him where he knows Derek, “wolf”, is standing. “It’s true. We’re together and if you let us perform or whatever together, even get some dirty dancin’ going on I’m sure it’ll bring in the business.”

“How are you so sure that will work?”  
“Um hello, an attractive male couple, scantily clad, and doing naughty things together? I know plenty of women who scour the internet to read things like that. Imagine the turn out for them to actually get to witness it in person.”

The spark in the man’s eye is enough for Stiles to know that he totally has the job in the bag. He twists around and gives Derek two thumbs up.

Derek shakes his head and rolls his eyes skywards like he’s cursing the day he ever thought dating Stiles Stilinski was a _good_ idea.

This is a bad idea. A bad bad idea and he has half a mind to march right out the door and find a different job. Repairs on his piece of shit jeep be damned he _changed his mind_.

Stiles shakes his head as he stands at the bottom of the stairs that will lead him to the stage. It’s hidden from the view of the audience but he can still hear their cheers and cat calls over the music that the dancer ahead of them is performing to.

He tries to back away but ends up backing right into a solid warm wall. Derek’s arms are circling around him comfortingly but he can still feel the rumble of his laughter against his back. Stiles hopes his canine genes suddenly kick in and he gets the mange and Deaton will be forced to put Derek in a cone of shame as to prevent him from chewing on himself.  Stiles smiles at his daydream until Derek nuzzling behind his ear brings him back to his senses.

“I can’t do this. No fucking way dude.”

Derek bites onto the fleshy lobe of his ear with a growl. “Don’t call me dude.”

Stiles shivers and melts back against him with a sigh. “I’m in gold booty shorts Derek. _Booty shorts!_ And I’m in a thong! There’s a string up my _ass_!” Stiles sounds scandalized and Derek’s laugh rumbles against his back against as he props his stubbled chin on Stiles shoulder.

“You shouldn’t complain so much about a string when you enjoyed my tongue inside your ass so much.” Stiles blushes scarlet from the tips of his ears all the way down to his chest.

“That was different.”

Derek chuckles and moves away from him. It confuses him for a moment but then he notices the lack of booming music and then a very topless dancer covered in glitter comes down from the stairs. She gives Derek a friendly smile and then a playful wink at Stiles, wishing him good luck on his first time. He mutters a thank you and keeps his eyes firmly on hers.

He watches her sashay away wondering how the actual holy hell that woman can even stand let alone walk in her heels that have to be verging on six inches. He’s in the middle of imagining himself trying to walk in them, all scenarios of which end with him in the emergency room and/or morgue, that he doesn’t notice Derek, the sneaky bastard, make his way up the stairs onto the stage until the deafening roar of the crowd has his head snapping towards the noise.

Stiles stomach does a sickening flip flop when he makes his way to the top of the steps, though still hidden from view of the audience. Derek is smirking freely, circling the stage like a caged animal. His eyes are still Alpha red and his fangs are in plain view, keeping up appearances for the sake of his signature stage name. But this time instead of being dolled up in bondage chic Derek is in loose cargo pants and tan work boots. He looks like a construction worker straight out of a porno and Stiles desperately tries to quell his arousal. Because he doesn’t need to embarrass himself, even more than he’s about to, by being on stage with a raging hard on.

Derek makes one more loop around the stage and when he stops in the middle he’s holding a familiar gaudy mic. A hush falls over the crowd and Stiles peeks around to see that everyone is looking on, watching Derek hungrily, some of them clenching dollar bills Stiles is amazed they haven’t ripped them in half.

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen,” Derek purrs into the mic and Stiles nearly swoons himself. “Tonight I know you were expecting just me, but we’re going to be doing something a little different.” He pauses and chuckles to himself, the sound sends a chill over Stiles and suddenly he’s really eager to be up on stage with him. “Tonight I’ll be on stage with someone special for his debut. How about you help me welcome him on stage?”

Derek tosses the mic away to a waiting stage hand but turns to look directly at Stiles and holds his hand out to him. Stiles feels himself go hot all over. No matter how much he wants to be out there on that stage he’s still shy and nervous and really kind of just wants to flee out the nearest fire exit.

Derek wriggles his fingers impatiently but doesn’t lower his arm. A handful of cheers and car calls reach his ears and he knows that the audience, while curious now, won’t stay patient forever. So taking a deep steadying breath he steps out onto the stage.

The cheers and whistles meet his ears but they sound muffled and far off, like he’s in a tunnel. He can barely hear anything over the jack rabbiting of his heart in his ears.  When he reaches Derek he takes the offered hand and clings to it tightly. Derek chuckles at him and Stiles glowers a bit, whishing he was strong enough to break the fuckers hand.

He’s hot under the stage lights and wishes he hadn’t been such a prude to wear a thick red track suit, not unlike the one he used to wear in high school, over the itty bitty booty shorts and thong combo. He bets he’d be a lot cooler without the suit on but is distracted when Derek pulls him in close, his back flush against Derek’s front.

Strong arms circle around his chest and waist, enveloping him tightly as Derek nuzzles against his neck, nipping at the exposed skin just above the collar of the track suit.

It startles him when the crowd hoots and hollers, dollars already making an appearance on the stage even though they haven’t really _done_ anything. But then it dons on him that his plan is actually working and grins smugly, tilting his head so that Derek can easily mouth at him. Derek growls quietly in approval and his long canines scrape across the tender skin, Stiles visibly trembles and the noise raises an octave.

When he feels Derek tugging down the zipper of the jacket he’s wearing he freezes and scrambles to grab at his wrists, and looks up at him with eyes wide and terrified enough to rival Bambi. He can hear the “awws” and disappointed noises but he ignores him.

What he doesn’t really expect is for Derek to lean in and seal their lips together. Stiles instantly presses into the kiss, distracting himself. With a nip to his lower lip he’s shivering and letting go of Derek’s wrists and lets him continue on his mission to undress him.

The air is surprisingly cool against his skin as Derek yanks the zipper down in one smooth motion and halves it open without breaking the kiss. If anything he kisses deeper, licking into Stiles mouth while his rough palms and fingers slide across his stomach, making his muscles spasm just beneath his skin, then slide up to his chest where fingertip pinch and tug his nipples into stiffness.

Stiles whines into Derek’s mouth and his knees nearly buckle, but his wolf is there, arm firmly around his waist keeping him up while the other hand is busy tugging the flimsy yet thick jacket from between them and flings it out into the audience.

Without looking Stiles can hear a tiny commotion like people are _fighting_ over it but he doesn’t ponder it for long when Derek’s hands start stroking over his sides until his fingers grip tightly at his hips and his lips and teeth are at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, worrying and sucking and biting what Stiles will know to be a deep purple bruise.

In the back of his mind he knows that this probably isn’t proper protocol for exotic dancing. Like there should be more dancing and less foreplay. He isn’t even sure at this point if there’s music playing or not. But what he is sure of is that the ladies are going practically rabid with that they’re seeing.

His eyes finally flit to the audience and even with the harsh spotlight on them he can make out groups of women fanning themselves with money or clutching onto each other. He can just faintly hear them shrieking and squealing happily.

With Derek’s attention and the attention of the crowd, Stiles has to admit he kinda feels, dare he say it, _sexy_.

He breaks away from Derek’s ministrations and walks to the other side of the stage, looking back over his shoulder, smirking at his dumbfounded expression. Stiles winks at him and decides to see if he can work the crowd up any.

Stiles cranes his neck and slides his index and middle finger along the lingering wetness at his neck and presses down into where he knows a mark is already blooming. The echoing ache of it is proof enough and he lets his eyes flutter before looking back at Derek with hooded eyes and grins.

Derek catches on quickly and grins back wolfishly, oh how appropriate, and does the universal “come hither” quirk with his index finger then points down to the spot in front of him.

Stiles grins darkly and, as gracefully as he can, drops down onto all fours. Even from across the stage Stiles can see how Derek’s eyes darken, the red of his alpha eyes giving a megawatt glow. He gives a victory fist pump in his head but quickly shuts that thought out.

He thinks back to his birthday, thinks of how Derek had worked the crowd by crawling on the floor. Stiles thinks back and tries to mirror it himself. He slinks and stretches himself out long and lean, rolling his shoulder and swaying his hips with every slow deliberate move. He can feel that the shorts underneath have started to show and knows that his thong is in plain sight but couldn’t care less as he slithers along the floor.

Derek’s eyes are hungry by the time he reaches him and Stiles can’t help but smirk up at him. He stays on his knees, kneeling and keeping them spread wide, knowing that in that position the dimples at the base of his spine look most prominent that way. And if the crowd is _anything_ like Derek, they’ll eat that shit up.

Stiles stares up at him a beat longer, looking at him through his lashes and then slides in close to him. He leans in and rubs his cheek against one of his thick powerful thighs while the other slides from booted foot all the way up to the belt loop of the khaki color cargo pants.

He carefully continues to nuzzle against his thigh, turning briefly to nip at the material his teeth find. The way Derek is breathing, spaced out and shallow, proves to Stiles just how hard Derek is concentrating on willing away his arousal. It makes him grin smugly as his fingers skirt up the inseam the cargo pants to cup and squeeze just the tiniest bit.

Derek curses and lets his head drop back and Stiles can feel his dick, hot and heavy in his palm even confined, twitch with interest.

He gives a playfully sympathetic pat to the front of his pants before he can do any real damage but on second thought he finds his fingers flicking the button of the pants and sliding the zipper down click by click on the little metal track.

Derek’s expression falters a bit but Stiles other hand squeezes his hip, _trust me_.

Stiles licks his lips and turns his attention to his handy work. He knows Derek prefers to go command when he dances and tonight is no exception. He unzips the pants, forming a V that exposes the thatch of thick neat curls that meet the base of Derek dick.

He moves to the side just a bit, after making absolutely sure that the actual manly bits are still tucked away out of sight, though not by much.

When the crowd gets a full look, they go buck shit wild. The cheers and cat calls make Stiles non-wolfy ears ring. He swears he sees one bear of a man faint in the back but can’t be sure.

Stiles grins and reaches to run his hand up and down Derek’s leg, fingertip brushing through the coarse hair and then upwards over his tight abs.

Without a second thought, Stiles hooks his fingers through the belt loops of Derek’s pants and yanks his hips at an angle and with his fingers still curled in the loops, keeps him there.

Derek tenses but Stiles just grins wickedly up at him before leaning in and noses at the patch of dark curls, inhales his thick musky scent before moving up a fraction of an inch.

A loud obscene moan rips from the alpha’s throat when Stiles wet pink tongue peeks out from his mouth and licks a hot stripe along the trail of hair that starts at his naval. His muscles spasm and heat radiates from his body. Stiles breathy laugh does _not_ help quell the arousal.

Men and woman alike are beside themselves. One patron looks like she’s frothing at the mouth and two seconds away from ripping her shirt off.

Stiles leans back after his tongue flicks into the dip of Derek’s naval and then, though shakily, he’s rising from his spot on the floor.

Derek huffs a laugh and cuffs the back of Stiles neck with a deep rumbling growl. The teenager merely smirks at him.

“Now get out there and give some lap dances,” Stiles orders, knowing that there’s no way in _hell_ that he’ll actually be doing lap dances, yet.

Derek snorts but turns up the seduction and lets Stiles take his exit before swaggering off the stage and into the crowd. Stiles notes that his wolf didn’t bother to zip up his pants.

“When we make it rain we make it _pour_!” Stiles exclaims after the club closes and Derek slides him a thick stack of bills held together by a rubber band across the table of the rounded booth they’re sprawled in.

Derek snorts with a beer raised to his lips. “Can you even make that reference if you don’t actually listen to rap?”

“I listen to rap.”

“Uh-huh.”

Stiles glares and sinks down into the booth, kicking Derek’s shin underneath the table. He hisses and Stiles grins.

Silence falls between them and Stiles, out of creeping up boredom and restlessness, starts to count his wad of cash. Surprisingly most of the stack is made of 5’s and 10’s. He’s gob smacked when sees a couple hundred dollar bills thrown in the mix.

“If I can manage to stay employed here I can get a new car _and_ fix my jeep in like three months or something.” He slumps against the booth stunned and earns a light genuine laugh from Derek.

“Niall wants you here bright any early tomorrow.”

Stiles brows furrow, “For what?”

“If you’re going to be employed here then you’re going to start training with the rest of us. Learn how to actually dance. Because as we’ll as out little show did we gotta be able to mix things up and outright sex on stage is pretty illegal.”

Stiles considers this for a moment and sighs with defeat.  “Guess it wouldn’t hurt to actually learn to shake my money maker.”

Derek snorts his beer out his nose but pointedly does not reply to that.

They make their way out of Wonderland hand in hand in the wee hours of the morning. Stiles is tired and wants to shower and at least _try_ to sleep before booty dance boot camp. Derek walks him to the truck and kisses him goodnight, Stiles blushes like an idiot with an equally goofy smile plastered across his face.

When he finally gets him, his dad is sleeping on the couch with ESPN playing on mute. It makes Stiles wince, realizing he basically stole his dads truck and left without a note. He knows there’ll be a super long lecture in the morning but one thing he knows for sure is that he dad does _not_ need to know his little boy is now a stripper.

There are some things that parents just don’t ever need to know. Ever.

Once in his room Stiles lock his door behind him and just stares at his lovely, heavenly, amazing bed. For a moment he glances around, to make sure nobody is looking, then pulls his spoils from his backpack and after taking the rubber band off he flings the money onto his bed and dives in after it.

He cackles to himself and goes batshit crazy, flailing and rolling and makes money-angels on his bed.

A loud cough has him squeaking and flailing himself off of his bed.

When he rises Derek is pulling back the covers and falling into Stiles bed and grumbling for him to get his skinny ass in bed.

Stiles stares at him for a minute but scrambles up from the floor and crawls into bed with him, not bothering to change out of his clothes.

“You’re going to do that every time, aren’t you.” Derek’s rough sleepy voice makes it clear that he isn’t asking.

Stiles grins, his head on Derek’s chest and curls up tighter to his side when Derek’s arm circles around him. “Yup.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and Comments are energy for my soul!  
> But seriously, let me know what you though, I really do appreciate that.  
> And to those of you who may be following my other finished stories, I'm trying my best to get those moving.


End file.
